


Will and Wrote

by LadyStardust



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: ...I may have done this wrong, F/M, I mean as lemon as something can be without warranting the M rating, One Shot, Post-Canon, Sarah as a writer, lowkey lemon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 06:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyStardust/pseuds/LadyStardust
Summary: Write about what you know they said. So she wrote about him.





	Will and Wrote

I’d rather spill  
my coffee  
than write about  
you again.  
  
  
It will burn less.

[(source)](http://scattered-wings.tumblr.com/post/72095198605)

* * *

 

There was nothing at the end of the world.  That was something Sarah Williams knew.  So it was what she wrote about.  Write about what you know they said.  

She knew there was nothing at the end of the world.  She knew there was nothing but him.

Write what you know, and she wrote about him.  Somehow there was nothing she seemed to know better than him.  

She wrote about standing at the edge of the world and watching it fall down.  She wrote about owls and shattered ballrooms with glittering crystals and dropped peaches.  She wrote about eyes that held every mountain and every sea.  That followed her around the room, even when she couldn’t see him.  That would always appear as clear and crisp in her memory as if she was looking directly at them.  But she always did struggle to look anywhere else.  

There was a warning somewhere about looking at goblins.  She just couldn’t remember what happened after.

So she kept writing. She left coffee stains on all her pages from the sleepless nights. Her hand cramped as it tried to keep up with her speed. She couldn’t stop. There were so many words. So many things she had to say. So many things she wanted to tell him. So many things she imagined him telling her.

Then the oddest thing happened - people loved it. Everyone who read it was struck by her stories. Of how she was able to capture something (someone) so perfectly. But then again, she’d always had the right words.

It had been thirteen years. But time was funny that way. So often it felt like barely any time had passed at all, but when considering all that had happened, it seemed remarkable that it wasn’t longer. It had been thirteen years, save for three hours stolen. He’d given them back. It was as if he’d wanted to make sure. Of what, she didn’t know. So she didn’t write about that.

She didn’t write about how they said only a handful of words to each other. Of how he’d removed his glove to hand her the crystal, filled with her time. So her palm would have to graze his to take it.

Ten thousand and eight hundred seconds. She touched his fingertips and the crystal dropped. She didn’t care about a single one of those seconds. She didn’t let go of his hand. Or maybe he didn’t let go of hers. Who even cared anymore.

She remembered, the feeling of those fingertips slowly moving from her palm to her wrist. So light was his touch, like feathers on her skin. She moved closer, she moved so much closer until one of them closed the space and his hand was no longer on her wrist. It was snaking up the inside of her old tank top. It was cupping her breast. It was unbuttoning her jeans and sliding between her thighs.

He gave her three hours back.

She just wanted to write about anything else.

She cried, and screamed, and begged - but she wouldn’t wish. She tried to be Hemingway. But then she was just writing about him drunk. She tried to be any of the Brontes. But Emily wanted her to kill him and Charlotte wanted her to kiss him and she wasn’t sure how to do either anymore. She tried to be Fitzgerald or Austen but they all told her the same thing.

Write about what you know. So she wrote about him while she screamed and cried and begged. She wrote about him even as she hated him. He’d turned her world, and she lived forever trapped in that room, starving and exhausted.

Then she got published.

Her book launch was a huge success. A collection of short stories, and she read aloud from a few to a crowded room full of people dressed in their best New York black. The same people that clapped when she finished, and had her sign their copies.

She moved between them, in a new dress she’d bought just for the occasion. “Sparkling with crystals”, the sales associate told her. She’d paid cash. The hem of her dress getting caught under the spike of her shoes. Everyone tried to stop her, to congratulate her, and ask her where she got her ideas from.

“Write about what you know,” he said, coming up behind her. “Isn’t that what they all say?”

Of course he came. Dressed like he had at the edge of the world, his shirt just a little too white, and hair just a little too wild. “You’d know better than anyone what has been said,” she answered.

“And as for what’s been written?”

“Well,” she said, placing her drink down on a passing server’s tray. She carefully pulled a small red book out of her purse. She handed it towards him with a pen. “I’ll sign mine if you’ll sign yours.”

Write about what you know.

She knew he’d be here. So she brought the book. She signed her name with a flourish next to the dedication page.

She looked inside to see where he’d signed. She closed the book and handed it back to him. “Your real name please.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, but he waved the book blank and signed it again. This time something much more unexpected.

She knew he’d be here. So she arrived alone. So she wore something black, instead of something white, and made him find her. 

But she’d got it wrong.  She thought he’d come to curse her. Write about what you know, they said.

She hadn’t known that he would remember precisely the way his hand felt in hers. That watching him slowly and deliberately remove the glove from his right hand, would cause her heart to race the way it did. As he slowly tucked the glove into his pocket, and raised his hand to gently brush her cheek.

“You had…a smudge,” he said, by way of explanation.

She didn’t know what was going to happen next. She didn’t know there was an unlocked maintenance closet just behind them, but he knew. She didn’t know who kissed who first, but she did know that he ripped her dress. That he threw his other glove down and lifted her up against the wall. She knew that he was very good with his hands, but he always touched her like he’d touched her a thousand times before, and would touch her a thousand times after. He had the marks of a millions wishes on his skin, and she felt each and every one of them as he moved against her.

She knew the truth, that girls who kissed their monsters never got their happy ending. But when he cried out her name, like a deity and a curse - oh, she believed she could. The knowing would come later.

How did that story end again? Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted everything.

She got it all anyways.


End file.
